


never wanted the nice boys anyway

by foxxcub



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas Fluff, M/M, competing english majors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: “Eames, I don’t know what dictionary you’re working out of, but my definition of ‘favor’ does not entail asking someone you despise to play escort to your family’s Christmas party.”Eames glares at him. “I’m not asking you to play escort, merely be my date."





	never wanted the nice boys anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal November 2010

Arthur thinks, honestly, that it’s got to be a joke.

“Yeah, sure, right,” he snorts without looking up from his laptop.

“I’m serious here.”

“Of course you are.” Arthur types a little too furiously at the keys and ends up spelling _verisimilitude_ wrong.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t serious.” For once, Eames actually sounds earnest, but then, he’s good at getting exactly what he wants. Arthur sees it every day; Eames wouldn’t have the entire department eating out of his hand if he didn’t possess fantastic manipulation skills.

“But you would be asking just to piss me off.”

“I’m _not_, Christ, I can never win with you, can I? I’m just asking a favor.”

Arthur huffs loudly and finally glances up across the table to give Eames what he hopes is his best withering look. “Eames, I don’t know what dictionary you’re working out of, but my definition of ‘favor’ does not entail asking someone you despise to play escort to your family’s Christmas party.”

Eames glares at him. “One, I’m not asking you to _play escort_, for fuck’s sake, merely be my date. And two—”

“You just said I had to ‘act the part of the besotted boyfriend.’ And while I’m sure as hell not pretending to be your boyfriend—”

“—I may have overstated things—”

“—I’m sure as _fuck_ not going to be besotted with you just so Aunt Sue stops nagging you to date socialites.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “So...you’ll at least come?”

Arthur grabs his paperback copy of Yeats poetry and throws it at Eames’ head. “I have a thesis to write, in case you forgot, or have you gotten out of that as well?”

Eames ducks the paperback and sighs. “Those aren’t due for another two weeks and the party’s this weekend. I’m desperate here, Arthur, I mean it. They already think I’m bringing my—my _friend_ with me, and if I show up solo I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Not my problem.” Arthur starts typing again, think furiously, _Why me, why me, fuck, it’s always gotta be me..._

“That’s just it, though, they, erm. Already think it’s you.”

Arthur’s head snaps up as a sudden embarrassing heat floods his cheeks. “They _what_?”

Eames gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry?”

~

Sometimes, Arthur wishes he’d picked anything but English as his graduate degree. But he’d gotten it in his head years ago that he was going to be a professor, that he was going to mold young lives with the words of Whitman and Hemingway and change the world. Or maybe he just watched _Dead Poet’s Society_ one too many times.

It was just his luck that the school he choose to pursue his studies in early 20th century American literature also had Eames, who basically _rules_ the English department and is the darling TA of the faculty. Arthur doesn’t even know if the department chair knows his name. Eames, however, has him on speed dial.

To add insult to injury, Arthur has been hopelessly, insanely, and irrevocably attracted to Eames from the first day he’d walked into the grad students’ lounge and found him sprawled across the floor doing push-ups while reading _Absalom! Absalom!_. He’d glanced up, face flushed and covered in sweat, and gasped happily, “Oh! You must be Arthur, the Whitman fanatic!”

Arthur wanted to _loathe_ him so very badly, and he did, he really did. But he also spent those first few months thinking horribly filthy things to do to Eames’ obscene mouth. It took a force of will to make himself get over it, and it helped that Eames said things like, “You know Arthur—if it’s an alcoholic American writing about sex and impotence, he’s all over it,” to his fucking sophomore American studies class. He was a condescending ass who thought Arthur was just another hipster writer throwing himself into academia.

It went along away with the loathing.

And yet, it didn’t explain Eames dropping into the chair across from Arthur in the library and abruptly asking him to be his date to his family’s yearly Christmas gala.

It also didn’t explain Arthur’s sudden and intense urge to say yes.

~

He ignores Eames for the next two days. Which is a considerable feat, seeing as Eames teaches the class right before Arthur’s freshman comp class (because of _course_ Arthur gets Comp 101 and Eames gets American Lit Studies, because the universe hates Arthur). But he manages to get to class a few minutes late each time, just enough to make sure Eames is gone and he doesn’t have to deal with this fake date bullshit.

It works, until the third day, when Kayla, one of his brighter students, asks him in passing, “So, you and Eames are, like, a thing, right?”

Had Arthur been drinking, he’d be choking right now. “Come again?” he asks.

She shrugs. “My roommate’s in his class, and she said he keeps talking about you, how you’re working on your proposals together, how you’re going to Connecticut to meet his family...”

“I’m _not going anywhere with him_.”

Kayla frowns. “You’re dating but you’re not going to meet his parents? That’s kinda jacked up, don’t you think?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, desperately craving an Advil. He should’ve known Eames would play dirty. “No, we’re not dating, _ever_.”

“Maybe you should tell Eames that before you break his heart or something.” From the way she’s looking at Arthur, you’d think _he_ was the one being the manipulative douchebag.

“Trust me, I will,” Arthur mutters.

~

“Stop telling people we’re dating.”

Eames doesn’t even bother to look up from his wasteland of notes scattered about his tiny Starbucks table. He takes a nonchalant sip from his latte. “I don’t believe I’ve said such things, actually.” He makes a random scribble in pencil on a piece of legal paper, and Arthur’s reminded yet again that he hates how Eames never types his notes and outlines on a laptop—they’re always written out by hand first. Like he’s is living in the goddamn sixties.

“You’re telling your students we’re working on our proposals together.”

“We do research together, do we not?”

“We _share fucking books_ because the library only has one copy of each and I can’t afford to buy—”

“Then I’m not lying, now, am I?” He finally glances up, latte in hand, and gives Arthur his worst look of amused condescension.

Arthur grits his teeth. “You’re also saying I’m going home to meet your parents, which I _so_ have not agreed to do and you know it.”

The corner of Eames’ mouth quirks up. “Aww, yes, well. Perhaps I was being...optimistic.”

“You were being an ass.”

“You never gave me an answer.”

“I did, too! I said _hell fucking no_.”

“I believe the exact words were that you would not be my boyfriend, nor pretend to be besotted with me.”

“How is that in any way not a stern ‘no’?”

“Well, for one, you don’t have to be my boyfriend.”

Arthur blinks. “What? But you said—”

“I’ve reevaluated the situation at hand, and I think it would be in our best interests if the boyfriend angle were...altered.”

“Meaning?”

Eames sets his cup down and folds his hands very neatly over his pile of notes. His licks his lips slowly. Arthur tries not to stare. “Meaning, we’ll be friends. With benefits. You’ll be my colleague accompanying me to the gala, and everyone will just think we’re simply fucking on the side.”

Arthur hates his automatic blush. “How—how is this a better angle than being your boyfriend?” he stammers.

“Besottedness isn’t a requirement?”

“That’s not even a word.”

“But it’s true.”

“You’re fucking insane, d’you know that? In. Sane.”

For some reason this makes Eames smile at him, a smile that would almost be considered genuine if Arthur didn’t know better. “Why, Arthur, you sound almost fond of me.”

Real or not, it still does stupid things to Arthur’s insides, making him feel all warm and fidgety. “It’s an illusion.”

“Even so, I’ve yet to hear a ‘no’ on this issue.”

Arthur rubs a palm over his cheek, breathing out slowly through his nose. Somehow, against his better judgement, he mumbles, “Fine, okay, fine, I’ll be your fucking date.”

Eames toasts him with his latte cup. “I’d knew you’d see reason, darling.”

If only Arthur had the balls to punch Eames in the face in the middle of Starbucks.

~

“So let me get this straight so I’m perfectly clear: you’re going to Eames’ family’s Christmas party disguised as his fuck buddy grad TA colleague in order to get Eames’ family to leave him alone about dating and being in a relationship.”

Arthur steadfastly does not look up from his beer. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “And you’re _sure_ there’s not some ulterior motive going on here, that you’re not just doing this because you’ve been lusting after him for—”

“Jesus, no, I don’t even like him! This is just a means to an end, all right? I don’t even know why he decided to suck me into his nefarious plans, but I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with ruining my life. I’m just...making the ruining go a little slower.”

His roommate blinks slowly, then shakes her head, giving him a pitiful look. “You really are a piece of work.”

“Excuse me?”

She leans across the bar table and pats his hand. “You must’ve worked really hard to make yourself believe all that. I’m impressed at your determined enthusiasm to live in denial.”

Some days, Arthur hates the fact that he lives with a psychology PhD candidate. “I’m not in denial. Everyone knows Eames lives to torment me.”

“Ever pull that cute little girl’s hair in kindergarten just to make her pay attention to you?”

“Well, yeah, but—” He suddenly glowers at her. “No, fuck no, this is _not_ that, Ari, it’s not, don’t pull your psych bullshit on me, you _know_ it’s not the same thing.” It’s infuriating, the way his cheeks flush and his heart pounds a little harder.

Ariadne shrugs. “All I’m saying is, Eames is an insanely attractive guy with charm and personality to spare. He’s got entire chapters of _The Beautiful and The Damned_ memorized, and he’s British.”

“_Used_ to be British,” Arthur interjects sullenly. “He’s been a goddamn US citizen since he was fourteen. He just plays up the accent.”

“Whatever. My point is, he could have anyone he wants at this school. But he chose you.”

Arthur scowls at his beer and tries not to think about she’s totally right. “It’s just a big joke to him,” he mutters.

“Oh, _Arthur_.” Ariadne rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t have said yes if you didn’t want him.”

“I _don’t_.” But the heat crawling up the back of his neck says otherwise.

Fuck.

~

It occurs to him, two days before he’s supposed to go to Connecticut with Eames, that he has no idea what to wear.

If it were just going to be just any Christmas party, Arthur could handle that, no sweat. He has a wool suit his grandmother bought a couple years ago and a couple of nice cashmere sweaters he wears to his own family gatherings. But Eames’ family isn’t his family. They’re practically a _monarchy_. Or, in more American terms, extremely old money. Like, fossilized money.

Eames came over to the States when he was twelve, when his father decided to up and buy one of the largest software companies in the country. Within a few months he was on par with Bill Gates for being one of the wealthiest human beings on planet, even though Hubert Eames was already filthy rich to begin with. Needless to say, Eames himself has never wanted for much in his life.

Why he chose to pursue a pauper’s life as an English professor, Arthur will never know. He’s the only TA on campus who drives a Range Rover, and he’s famous for popping up at the bars and buying rounds for everyone in his class at the end of semester.

And now, Arthur’s expected to just—just show up at Eames’ side and act like he _belongs there_. Like he’s not surviving on scholarship and grant money and can’t even afford to fly home to see him mom for the holidays because he has to pay rent.

Which is why he’s standing in front of Eames’ apartment door on a Tuesday night when he should be writing his proposal.

He knocks twice and Eames answers the door wearing a Tap Out shirt and sweatpants. Of course.

But the weird part is how Eames’ eyes flare happily for a split second before he smirks lazily at Arthur and he drapes himself against the doorway. “And what can I do for you this evening?”

Arthur scrubs a hand through his hair and says miserably, “Okay, look, I’m just going to say it—I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear to this thing and it’s driving me crazy.” He’s painfully aware that he’s saying this to a guy in a fucking Tap Out shirt.

Eames, oddly enough, looks charmed. “You’ve been thinking about what to wear to meet my parents all day?”

“No, not—just this afternoon. Mostly. Sort of.”

“Do you own a suit?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“But I can’t just—” Arthur flails his hand at Eames. “It’s, y’know, _your family_. I can’t show up in a suit from Burlington Coat Factory.”

“My father loves Burlington Coat Factory, actually.”

“_Eames_, damn it, I’m serious.”

And Eames, much to Arthur’s chagrin, just laughs and shakes his head. Then, without warning, he reaches out and slides a hand over the back of Arthur’s neck, his thumb sweeping back and forth against Arthur’s hairline. Arthur goes very still, barely inhaling, unable to process the warmth of Eames’ hand and the flicker of something he can’t identify in Eames’ eyes. Something that looks like _affection_.

“You are positively adorable sometimes, my god,” he says in this soft, rumbly voice that makes Arthur want to lean forward and sink into the sound and _what the fuck is going on here_.

He swallows hard. “Just tell me what to fucking wear, Eames,” he says, and his own voice is breathy and low.

Eames doesn’t drop his hand, just keeps skimming his thumb back and forth. “Wear the bloody suit you own, you ridiculous man. No one in my family with give two fucks if it’s Dior or Jessica Simpson, truly.”

Arthur sighs. “Okay. Okay, if you’re sure—”

“Positive. I’d insist you wear jeans, but my mother is rather traditional in that regard. We’ve been trying to talk her out of the formal dress rule for years.”

It occurs to Arthur that he’s still standing in the hallway of Eames’ apartment building with Eames’ hand on his neck. He licks over his lips quickly. “All right, then I’m just gonna, um. Go.” He ducks away from the touch and hurries down the hall without looking back.

When he gets to his car, there’s a text waiting for him. From Eames’ number.

_you’ll look smashing no matter what you wear_, it reads.

Arthur stares at it for a long moment in the private silence of his car. Very slowly, very carefully, he smiles.

~

The night before he’s due back at Eames’ apartment at the ass crack of dawn to drive to Stamford, Arthur has a mild panic attack over his thesis. It’s not due to his adviser for another week, but at one o’clock in the morning he’s suddenly hunched over his MacBook reading over his footnotes and thinking, _Oh god, this is fucking terrible, I’m doomed._

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the overdose of caffeine. Maybe it’s the side stress of impressing Eames’ family (which, seriously, what the fuck, _they are not even dating and never will_). Whatever it is, Arthur does not believe he’s in complete control of his actions when he grabs his phone and makes a call.

“Are you pocket dialing me, love?”

Arthur is stupidly relieved to hear the alertness in his voice, laced with bits of exhaustion and tension. “Did I wake you?” he asks.

“‘Course not. What’s sleep when I have Fitzgerald mocking me and my ignorance?” He laughs, but it’s a weak, frustrated sound.

Arthur can’t help smiling. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I’ve told you several times that he’s not worth the effort.”

“I’ll raise you _Leaves of Grass_ with _Gatsby_.”

“Apples and oranges, Eames, apples and oranges.”

“Perhaps.” Eames makes a muffled sound, like a swallowed yawn. “So what’s really eating at you to stoop to such lows as to call me in the wee hours of the morning?”

Arthur stretches out on the couch and covers his eyes with his free hand. “Are—are you happy with your thesis?”

“More or less. Some days I want to burn the bloody thing with fire, but most of the time I’m happy with it. Why, are you having doubts about yours?”

“I just...I can’t make it _work_.” He shuts his eyes, like that will ease the embarrassment of admitting such a thing to Eames.

“I highly doubt that’s the case. I’ve seen your notes, heard you debating Stallings on your key points. He likes what you’ve got, Arthur, he’s told me as much.”

Arthur wants to be pissed that Eames has been talking to his adviser about him, about his _work_, but instead a weird calm settles in his stomach. “Really?” he asks quietly.

“Do you have any idea how irritating it is to have a conversation about post-modern masculinity in a pre-World War I America that always cycles back around to how innovative Arthur’s proposal is, how _brilliant_ Arthur is? It’s bloody infuriating, is what it is.”

Arthur slowly opens his eyes. “Stallings doesn’t say that,” he says to the ceiling.

“He damn well does. Surely you must know how much the department loves you, Arthur, it’s rather obvious.”

“I—they barely know my name—”

Eames laughs, low and warm. “If only I could lose myself in my head like you sometimes.”

Arthur feels off-kilter, as if his world has quite literally shifted beneath him.

“I meant that as a compliment, darling.”

“I know.” He flushes, winces at the phone. “I mean...thanks. I guess.” His mouth feels too dry for some reason.

“Do you feel better? Can you get a few hours of sleep now? I really don’t want to be driving in silence while you drool all over my seats.”

The truth is, Arthur does feel better. _A lot_ better. “Yeah, I think so,” he says. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to bother—”

“Arthur, would you believe me if I said this call is the one bright spot in my otherwise miserable night?”

He pauses, swallowing tightly. “...Maybe?”

Eames chuckles again, and Arthur has a sudden, intense longing to be across town, in Eames’ apartment, curled into his side with his face tucked against Eames’ neck.

God, he really does need some fucking sleep.

“Go to sleep, Arthur. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. Academia can wait for a bit.”

“All right. ‘Night.”

“‘Night, love.”

He hangs up, turns onto his side facing the back of the couch, and promptly falls asleep, his cell phone held against his chest.

~

Arthur doesn’t sleep the whole way to Stamford—he just sleeps _most_ of the way. One minute he’s listening to Eames’ burned copy of the latest Placebo album (which, okay, yes, Arthur kind of loves Placebo, but it’s not like Eames _knows_ this or anything), and the next he’s jerking awake twenty minutes outside the city limits.

“You look like a zombie when you sleep,” Eames says without looking away from the road.

“Fuck off,” Arthur mumbles sleepily, pawing around for his now-cold coffee cup.

“Thought I told you to get some sleep last night.”

“Right, and I always follow your orders.”

“Of course, my mistake.” Eames smirks and shakes his head. “We’re about fifteen minutes away. Any questions you’d like to field before you’re exposed to the carnival of delights that is my family?”

Arthur winces as he downs the rest of the ice-cold coffee. “No. I plan to do as little speaking as possible.”

“Mmm, that’s a good plan, but an unrealistic one. My Uncle Walter alone will wage an interrogation of your graduate studies thus far. He’s a failed academic himself, you see, so he loves to live vicariously through me and my friends.”

“He was an English professor?”

“No, he has a doctorate in medieval instrumentation.”

Without thinking, Arthur laughs. “And he’s not filthy rich? I’m shocked.”

Eames laughs as well, his smile bright and showing off his crooked teeth. “I know, right? It boggles the mind.” He always looks stupidly young and adorable when he smiles like this, and Arthur tries to hate him, or at least be indifferent to him, but he all can do is blush and stare and memorize the creases around the corners of Eames’ eyes.

He shifts against the leather seat, fidgets with his tie. “Should I, um, know anything else?”

“Just keep your head and you’ll be fine.”

Arthur doesn’t really know what he means by that, but he nods anyway, looking out the window at the passing trees, he heart thudding a little too quickly.

~

Eames’ parents’ house is enormous. Not that this is a surprise to Arthur, but he’s still a bit overwhelmed as they pull up into the long circle drive. He almost expects to see a valet greet them at the front door.

Instead, there’s a line of cars already parked along the drive. Eames sighs. “My family doesn’t really believe in proper parking,” he says. “You’d think there wasn’t a five car garage just around the corner.”

Arthur takes in the row of Jaguars and Mercedes and Bentleys and feels his palms start to sweat.

He startles when he feels fingertips touch the back of his hand. Arthur glances over, finds Eames watching him with an unfamiliar look in his eyes.

“You’ll be fine, trust me,” he says quietly.

Arthur swallows and doesn’t pull his hand away. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

Eames laughs again, and somehow the sound calms Arthur. “Gladly.”

~

The entire house smells like cinnamon, and the Evergreen in the foyer is possibly the largest Christmas tree Arthur’s ever seen in his life. There are enough lights covering it to light his whole apartment building.

Arthur stares up in awe at the thing until a woman dressed in a lovely green velvet gown announces, “Charles! You’re finally here!”

Eames smiles sheepishly. “Hello, Mother. Happy Christmas.”

“_Charles?_” Arthur hisses. He’s never heard Eames’ first name before. He’d kind of grown to believe it didn’t exist.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Eames hisses back as his mother engulfs him in a hug.

She quickly turns to Arthur, beaming happily. “And this must be your Arthur. You’re more lovely than Charles lets on, I must say.”

His whole face explodes in an embarrassing blush. He doesn’t know if it’s from the beautiful, luscious way her accent wraps around his name, or the fact that she said the phrase _your Arthur._ “It’s, um, very nice to meet you, Mrs. Eames.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, call me Rebecca. And you two must be starving, have you eaten at all yet?” She grabs Arthur by the arm and literally yells over her shoulder, “Everyone! Charles and his gorgeous boyfriend have arrived!”

Arthur’s eyes go wide as he looks frantically at Eames, who is now quite pink himself.

“Um, sorry?” Eames whispers, looking pained.

Arthur doesn’t know where to be amused, flattered, or horrified.

~

It’s not what Arthur expected.

Eames’ family isn’t a bunch of cold, pretentious, snooty aristocrats. Instead, they’re loud, boisterous, and pretty damn hilarious.

At one point, Eames’ brother Darren climbs up onto a dining chair and announces to the room at large that everyone must tell one embarrassing Christmas story or the alcohol is off limits. A chorus of boos and cheers follows, along with Eames’ _other_ brother Mark tackling Darren to the floor and calling victory.

“Are they always like this?” Arthur asks Eames.

“Oh, no,” Eames says as Mark simulates choking Darren with his neck tie. “This is actually quite tame. Last year there was nudity involved. Mother nearly disowned them for the rest of the holiday.”

Arthur glances across the room where Mrs. Eames watches her sons wrestle across the floor with an exasperated, yet fond expression. He realizes with a jolt that he kind of knows how she feels.

“You’re the oldest?”

“By two years. Good thing I’m the proper role model, yes?” He winks at Arthur, who rolls his eyes.

“For the record, you’re quite fortunate,” an older woman says, leaning in close to Arthur as if sharing a secret. Her eyes are the exact same shade as Eames’. “I’ve never seen Charlie so iridescently happy with anyone before.”

Eames clears his throat loudly. “Aunt Harriet, his ego does not need the added incentive, believe me.” He doesn’t quite meet Arthur’s gaze.

“Oh, posh.” She beams at Arthur. “It’s been ages since Charlie brought someone ‘round for the holidays, especially since that awful break-up with—”

“Didn’t I hear Mother calling for you?” Eames suddenly steers his aunt in the direction of the kitchen, adding, “I’m sure I did, she might want you to taste the new batch of wassail...”

Arthur is more than a little intrigued by the bright flush creeping up Eames’ neck as Aunt Harriet scurries away, and the way he keeps ducking his head and avoiding any eye contact with Arthur.

“Is that what this is about?” he asks softly.

Eames becomes very interested in his tumbler of gin and tonic. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Me being your date wasn’t about getting your family off your back about dating socialites—it was about getting them to believe you’ve moved on.” Strange how the thought of Eames getting his heartbroken makes Arthur’s chest clench uncomfortably.

“Well, even if that were the case, I’m sure you’ve no interest in the dirty details of my past love life.” Eames glances up, gives Arthur a smile that’s so forced, Arthur wants to punch him.

“How long has it been since you brought someone home for Christmas?” The words just sort of tumble out of Arthur’s mouth in a rush before he can think twice about it.

“Arthur, it’s of no importance—”

“_How long?_”

Eames huffs and looks up at the ceiling, his throat bobbing. “Two years,” he replies stiffly. “I had a boyfriend, a _real_ boyfriend, for nearly three years before that, and he thought my dream of pursuing a career in academia was rubbish, because why did I need a career when Hubert Eames was my father? So he left me for an actor in LA and never looked back.” He smiles that horrible fake grin again, a pinch right between his brows.

Arthur’s heart is pounding for some reason. “Eames, I didn’t know—”

“It’s nothing, Arthur, and I apologize for unloading on you like that. I just—my family wants me to be happy, and sometimes...” He flails his hand absently. “Sometimes it gets to be a bit much.”

“But...I don’t understand. In our department alone there’s a least a dozen people who would—you could have anyone—”

“Anyone?” Eames meets his eyes, and his expression is so intense it knocks the breath out of Arthur. “I hardly believe that’s true.”

“It is, though, I know it is, even my goddamn roommate tells me it’s true—”

“And yet the only person in the world I wanted to be here with me would only do so under extreme coercion.”

Arthur blinks. _Oh._ “Are—are you saying you—but you think I’m a pretentious hipster...”

“I think you’re a bloody brilliant hipster, and my attempts at flirtation are rather rusty, I admit.” He laughs, but the sound is resigned, sad.

Arthur swallows, wonders how he never saw it before, and yet it was _right there_ all along. “So...is this a date?”

Eames bites his lip for a moment, looking conflicted, as if answering this question will completely lay him open to Arthur, but he’s saved by Mrs. Eames delightedly calling out, “Charles, look where you’re standing! You’re not obeying the house rules!”

Arthur looks around in confusion, only to see Eames glance up and groan loudly.

“Mother, really, we don’t have to—”

“_Nonsense_, you’re not getting out of it so easily, young man, rules are rules.” She points to a spot above their heads, and not surprisingly, a sprig of mistletoe tied to a red velvet ribbon dangles from the chandelier.

“Um.” Arthur laughs nervously. “Are there really rules about mistletoe here?”

“Unfortunately, yes, although they involve kitchen duty, and quite frankly that threat lost its teeth the day I stopped being a teenager.” Eames is staring up at the thing like it’s an offensive spider, his mouth twisted to one side.

“Charles, it’s all in good fun, do be a good sport! Is it really such a hardship to kiss your darling boyfriend?” Mrs. Eames puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, smiling indulgently at them.

Eames winces. “Mother, seriously, don’t—”

“No, she’s right.” Arthur doesn’t know what he’s saying, only that his heart is racing and there’s a loud roaring in his ears and he just wants Eames to smile at him again like he did in the car. He wants to see Eames happy because of _him_, because he wants Arthur and wants him to be there with him, surrounded by his family.

Eames’ eyes go wide. “Arthur,” he whispers, “you really don’t have to—”

“You’re the first person I call when I’m freaking out about my thesis. What does that mean?”

“You just needed someone to reassure you—”

“No, I needed _you_ to reassure me. I needed to hear your voice in the middle of the night tell me everything’s going to be okay, because—because deep down I respect you more than anyone I’ve ever known and your opinion means everything to me, and you really _could_ have anyone you want with you here, but for whatever reason you chose me, and I think this means I might be a little in love with you, so yes, I’ll kiss you under this fucking mistletoe, Eames.”

His shoulders are heaving as he gasps for breath, the words hanging in the air as Eames gapes at him.

Arthur swallows tightly. “So? Say something, damn it.”

Eames opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he says slowly, “You’re...in love with me?”

“Christ, don’t make me say it again.”

“Then say the part about respecting me more than anyone in your life.”

“How about you just kiss me and get it over with?”

“You’re positively romantic, Arthur.”

“And I’m seriously going to punch you now.”

Eames grins at him, a real, honest grin that’s devastating and utterly gorgeous. “No, you’re not,” he breathes, tilting his head just so as he leans in, and fuck, Arthur is so, so gone, even before their lips touch.

It’s probably not the most appropriate kiss to have in front of present company, but Arthur doesn’t care; the slow, careful slide of Eames’ tongue against his own, the plush, slick feel of Eames’ lips—all of it is enough to make Arthur light-headed and hot with want. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s always imagined kissing Eames would feel like this: wet and a little dirty and absolutely perfect.

Arthur is vaguely aware of applause surrounding them, and as the haze gradually clears from his brain, he realizes his hands are clutching the lapels of Eames’ suit jacket a little too possessively. But it’s all right, because Eames has one hand splayed gently over the line of Arthur’s jaw and the other cupping the back of his head, fingertips digging into Arthur’s hair. When they finally break apart, they’re both panting.

“This...might not have been the best idea,” Eames says roughly as his brothers chant, “Get it on, Charlie!”

Arthur rests his forehead against Eames’, letting their noses bump together. “Probably not. Although who says English majors are all sticks-in-the-mud?”

Eames laughs, nips at Arthur’s lower lip. “I never once called you that, promise.”

“Not really sure I believe you, but you could maybe take me some place and convince me otherwise?”

“Oh, so you’re making all the demands now?”

“I prefer to call them suggestions.” Arthur nuzzles his cheek, letting his lips skim over the stubble of Eames’ jaw. He wants to groan at how easily Eames shivers at the touch.

“Your suggestion is rather rude. We’ll be abandoning my family for my old room.”

“Is that so bad? You can show me your ten thousand copies of _The Great Gatsby_ and where you jerked off to thoughts of Fitzgerald and his post-modern masculinity.”

“You’re such a bastard, do you know that?” Eames gasps, kissing Arthur hard on the mouth.

He all but drags Arthur out of the dining hall to the sounds of cat calls and whistling.

~

The next week, Arthur submits his thesis to his adviser. He submits it after staying up the night before in his boxers in Eames’ bed with his Macbook in his lap, Eames reading over his shoulder and humming his approval.

“It’s disgusting how brilliant you are,” Eames says as he kisses over the back of Arthur’s neck. “You’re going to make an amazing professor one day, and I’ll get to say I knew you when you were TAing lowly English comp freshman. Everyone will be horrendously jealous of me. Just promise you’ll include me in your Pulitzer Prize speech?”

Arthur snorts. “Now you’re just aiming for sex.”

“Well, yes, that’s a given, but I do mean it, love. You’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine.”

All things considered, that’s all Arthur really needs to hear.


End file.
